Arise From Thorns
by Viola
Summary: A passion play in three acts. Act Three, Surrender: Lovers infinitenesse. Holtz confesses; Justine lights a candle.
1. Lovelorn

Author's Notes: The first of three vignettes in the _Arise From Thorns_ sequence. Many, many thanks to Lisse and the wonderful kids over at the Angel Fanfic Workshopfor beta-reading.

Disclaimer: Joss, ME, WB, and the rest of the alphabet soup own everything.

LOVELORN

My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun --  
In Corners -- till a Day  
The Owner passed -- identified --  
And carried Me away -- 

-- Emily Dickinson, 1863

The words he spoke didn't matter, the comforting sound soft around her shoulders like a blanket. His voice pulled and spun her like the phases of the moon, rhythm in shadow, promising her a shift in the tide. The dark crept in faster here under the eves, but beyond the pale square of window she could see the horizon, still painted the biohazard orange of an LA sunset. The closeness of the low, slanting ceiling made her chest tight, made her gasp for a breath of air, bone dry and dusty. The only sounds that came from beyond his voice were the creaking of old floorboards and uncoiling mattress springs. The mattress smelled of her grandmother's house -- mothballs, wet carpet, salt and decay. Memory stole another breath, a knife's blade between her ribs, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

Better not to think then. Better just to listen.

Hands brushed at her damp hair, pushing it aside, his breath hot and sweet on her neck as he spoke. "My Caroline used to wash her hair in rainwater." He exhaled what might have been a sigh. "It took so long to dry in that damp air. I always warned that she would catch her death from chill. But she swore by the rain, said it made her hair shine." Icy water dribbled down her back, the hot/cold in the stuffy attic room almost more than her battered nerves could stand.

"Stop that." She shivered, her skin prickling with goosebumps. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and heat flushed her cheeks, but the tips of her fingers and toes ached with cold.

"Keep still," he replied, and did it again.

She twitched beneath the hands that held her firmly in place, and he moved in closer, radiating heat beneath crisp cotton. His hands were cold, though, wet on her throat, and she leaned back into the hollow between his arms. Warmer there. Comfortable. How they had gotten to this point almost didn't matter. Almost. But she had a dim memory, of being out of her head with fever and painkillers, of sweaty sheets and the faraway hum of an electric fan. 

She shivered again.

He tugged at her shoulders. "Turn around now. Look at me. Let me see how bad it is."

Obediently she turned to him, her abused mouth beginning to throb under his scrutiny.

"Oh, yes," he murmured, dipping a rough cloth into the bowl of cold water at his side. "I've been overzealous, haven't I?"

"It's all right…" she began.

"Yes, I suppose it had to be done." He scraped the cloth across the swollen corner of her mouth and she flinched. She could still taste blood and suspected he'd knocked loose her back teeth. 

"And some sacrifices must be made," he said solemnly, pressing the cold cloth gently beneath her left eye. "That no longer bothers you."

"I understand why, but I- I'm not going to lie to you. I don't like it."

That earned her a bitter half-laugh. "Nevertheless, it _is_ necessary."

"I know. That's why I'm willing to do it."

He pulled the cloth away from her face and smiled. "Accepting that what we wish and what we must do are two very different things… that, Justine, is wisdom."

"You've taught me well, I guess."

He peered intently at her for a moment before answering. "As I've said, you are perfect for this. Made in my own image, by these hands." He paused, laying his hands on her bare shoulders, then leaned in, kissing her forehead in benediction. He pulled back, looking at her fondly.

She looked down at her hands, avoiding his eyes. Taking a breath, she asked, "What if he doesn't believe me?"

"It makes little difference, Justine. The outcome will be the same." He tipped her face up with one hand. "I don't think it will be a problem. He likes you. Thinks, perhaps, that he can save you." He stifled a soft laugh. "A fortunate turn of events for us. But I wonder what it is he sees there. Some lost chance? Some missed opportunity?"

"He's a fool."

"Is he? I wonder."

"Do you think I need saving from you?" She tried to arch an eyebrow at him, but it hurt too much. This dance was familiar to them both by this point anyway. He knew exactly what she meant from the ghost of laughter in her voice, knew precisely how she expected him to react. A private smile, not too big, showing her that she amused him in spite of himself, that she and she alone was allowed a glimpse inside. 

The sun had finally dipped out of sight, the little square window going purple with twilight. Nearly time to go. She took a breath, steeled herself. This was a crossroads. She couldn't help thinking that it should have felt more surreal, more significant, more _something_.

"Do you think he'll do as he said?" she asked. "Or will he tell them?"

"He's an honorable man."

He was. There wasn't any getting around that. "And we're going to kill him."

Laughter again, dark and bitter, almost too low to hear. But she felt it along her collarbone, vibrating through his fingertips. "Regrettable. But never forget that this is a war."

"I haven't forgotten. He chose his side." Her eyes flicked up to his face. His gaze caught hers there and this time she didn't look away. "And I've chosen mine. I made you a promise, Daniel." She paused, knitting her fingers together in her lap. "I wouldn't do anything like this… not for anyone else. Not for anyone but you."

"I know." He turned her around again and helped her to gingerly pull her shirt back on. Spots of blood had already set in the faded cotton along the neck. She shivered again even as her palms began to sweat.

"Will you be all right?" He shook his head, answering his own question. "Of course you will. You're strong, strong as I'd hoped, stronger than I had any right to imagine." He took her by the wrist, held her there a moment longer. "You remember what must be done, of course."

She nodded.

"Good. Then go."

***

* A few post-story notes and odd tidbits: Arise From Thorns is the former name of the Washington, DC-based, Celtic/progressive band BRAVE (http://www.bravemusic.com/). It's also the name of their first album, which conveniently contains three songs titled: Lovelorn, Lure and Surrender. In this context, it's also a play on the Parable of the Sower, from the book of Matthew in the Bible: "And some fell among thorns, and the thorns sprang up and choked them." I'm not really an Emily Dickinson fan, but Poem 754 (http://www.plagiarist.com/poetry/?wid=1585) just fit scarily well into the mood I was going for here.


	2. Lure

Author's Notes: The second of three vignettes. This style is something totally new for me, brought on by a minor despair that I'd ever be able to write so-called experimental fiction. I'm not quite sure whether this works, or whether it's even at all experimental. But, hey, without growing pains, nobody grows. ^_^  Much thanks to everyone who reviewed Part One.

LURE

We walked down by the ocean's side

And fell into the water's tide

I looked away and turned to go 

When I heard your voice speak soft and low

You asked if I remembered

Love and innocence

Or has it all begun to slip away

From then each night I walked alone

I began to know what I'd become

(from _lure  arise from thorns, 1999)_

He follows her for days, longer than any of the others, before he makes up his mind.

She's a good girl, from the good side of town. Slumming. In nicotine armor and a leather jacket that swamps her wrists. (Look out, tough guy.) 

This city

Not like London. Not like Rome. Crown and country and endless sunsets. Stones held together by _vinum de vite and the will of God. Here the buildings sway with neon and glass when the ground rolls like thunder._

This city

Sloppy prey and tired, old hunter. Boring, old metaphor. But this one. Something about her just

Fits.

Better than even he expects. It surprises him, this connection, and so he continues to follow, even once he's sure. 

And, oh, she's looking for something (someone). She just doesn't know who or what. He feels the desperation, can smell it on her skin. (Hello, old friend.) Recognizes it for what it is. Dancing on a knife's blade. She

Drinks to dull the edges. That's familiar also. Not so much has changed. He sits in shadow, watches her and does the same.

From bar to coffee shop, anyplace with florescent lights and the never-ending drone of bored and careless voices. Dusk till dawn and back again. Maybe she thinks if she lives backward she can turn back the clock. Doesn't work. He knows. He's tried. (He's tired. So is she.)

She doesn't speak. Unless spoken to. He knows her better through what isn't said. Silences are so important. Sins of omission (he has plenty of his own). It won't take much convincing. Pretty girl in the palm of his hand, smile bright as a Sunday afternoon. The same but changed, a flipped mirror. 

Passion. It makes all the difference. Driven to despair, distraction

Vengeance. Hers is

White-hot and sleepless. He wants to touch that himself. He's been sleeping so long. She could be his resurrection (if she survives). Maybe even if she doesn't. Because

Passion consumes. Can't be helped. Better to be consumed by fire than concrete. He tells himself, he knows. And so he

Waits in the wings, the chain-link curtain to go up. Oil-slick footlights and a held breath before action. She knows he's there. She must. He watches

When she moves. She is flame and steel. His to temper. If he keeps watching, eventually she'll stumble. And then he'll

Approach. Offer a hand. A heart. A purpose.

Passion. (Come live with me and be my love.)

But she's not a sonnet, more like a wail. A howl. A fist. That she'll understand.

Ashes to ashes. Passion to passion. There's dust in her hair and blood on her hands and it still isn't enough. Never will be. This he also knows. Crave, hunt, seek and find. Dance through the middle-night. (witching hour. or so they say.) Then do it all again, again, again. Because once isn't enough. Twice. Thrice. Until it blurs, and all that's left is a constant hunger in the blood. 

He can show her all about hunger. (If these pleasures may thee move.) Because he's the same (different also). He knows the ache. Different, but not so different, too. Magnet cycles like the tide, pulling, pushing, endless. Just go with the flow then.

When she finally falls, he's ready. In just the right spot. Convenient. (Clever.) She stumbles, inches from the ground, only his hands between her and disaster. She

Turns away. Doesn't want to see him. Wishes he would go. He sees that (she). Wishes he wouldn't dog her steps, wishes wicked things didn't live in the shadows, wishes all this were a bad dream. But (eventually, inevitably)

She takes his hand anyway.

***

*Obviously, the lines _Come live with me and be my love, and __If these pleasures may thee move, belong not to me, but to Christopher Marlowe. Somehow Holtz strikes me as a Marlowe, John Donne, Michael Drayton, John Milton-y sort of guy. ^_^ If he ever got the chance, I imagine he'd be equally fond of T.S. Eliot. And, hey! If you want to be notified when the third vignette is posted, go here: http://www.geocities.com/metis_dreamwalk/announcementlist.html_


	3. Surrender

Author's Notes: The last of three vignettes. All the usual disclaimers apply. Much thanks, once again, to those who reviewed parts one and two.

SURRENDER

But see how patient I am grown 

In all this coil about thee: 

Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, 

I cannot live without thee!

-- Michael Drayton, _To His Coy Love_

It's a Tuesday when he takes her to meet God.

She doesn't want to go, he can tell. She wants to go home, to pick up some things, she says. But she ought to know better. He doesn't like her going back there, to the place before him. To all the reminders of why she ought to just walk away. To the one very big reminder of why she can't. She has to make a choice, he tells her. He thought they'd already been through this trial, but he's more than happy to repeat himself. She's silent after that, walks a half-step behind him as they go, pilgrims both, in search of absolution. Or contrition, or benediction. 

Still, he has to search hard for a church that has what he wants. He asks Justine and gets a blank look for his trouble. Except for a wedding or two, the occasional funeral, she's never seen the inside of a church. He's properly scandalized by that, and she looks at him oddly when she thinks he doesn't see.

He finds one eventually, tucked snugly between a mosque and a Christian Science reading room. It's odd to see it there, stained glass and statuary. Pageant, ritual. All out in the open. All these warring faiths side by side, feigning tolerance. Pretending everything is true, pretending there is no truth. He doesn't understand this age at all. But he goes inside, takes a deep breath, inhaling familiar incense, and decides it doesn't matter very much.

Faith is so much simpler, and more complicated, than that.

He slips into the confessional, leaving her standing in the aisle, looking tired, looking worried. Looking mutinous. But that can wait. For the moment, anyway. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… rather a long time… since my last confession."

But what to confess? There's no time for all, for two centuries of outdated sins and dreamt blasphemies. Doubt, anger, lust… carnal thoughts, carnal deeds. The girl, Justine… best perhaps to leave her out. She's the closest thing to purity he's found in this quicksilver Babylon, the closest to honesty. She's exactly what he needs, an extension of himself, of his will. Of _God's_ will. Surely that can't be a sin.

It might even be his salvation. Might be hers.

***

This place gives Justine the creeps. She's never been much for talking to God. But it's important to Daniel, so here they are. She's sitting in the very back pew, cradling her bandaged hand, kicking the kneeler up and down (which _must_ be sacrilegious) and thinking about hell. 

Churches never make her think about heaven. 

But she never _really_ believed in hell before, either. She thought about it, sinners and Satan and the cosmic unfairness of the whole idea, but never really believed it. Never believed such a place existed, that there was actually a hell. Or _hells_. Daniel says there's more than one, and that's a multiple-choice question she never wants to get right. _I'll take what's behind Door #3_… Not really all that funny, actually, because it could be true. It _is_ true, and that's a weird feeling. But then she'd never believed in vampires either. She doesn't want to believe in these things. Doesn't want to think about what they mean, really. But now? It's far too late for that. She's seen things, felt them, touched them. She's tasted dust, dry as ashes. So now, in this place, she has no choice but to believe. Even if belief makes her heart hurt. Even if it asks things of her she's not ready to give, even if he does. Even if the stained glass saints shattered, the crucifix spoke prophecy and the statue of the Virgin wept blood on the altar. It would be, now, only a minor surprise. If that. There are weirder things under heaven and earth, and she's well on her way to seeing them all.

The church is too hot for January, flame-lit and thick with incense. The air swims a little bit, a California highway-mirage shimmer of heat, and she shrugs off her jacket, sweating. He's been shut away with the priest for an eternity and she tries to guess what he's confessing, but she can't begin to imagine. She can't shake the feeling that anything he needs to confess, she's better off not knowing. And anyway, what she really wants to know is why Daniel dragged her here to begin with. _He_ needs a little religion? Fine. But _she_ doesn't know a cassock from a canticle, and he knows it, so why bother? Maybe he wants to save her soul. Oh, yeah. That must be it. She kicks the kneeler again and it rebounds sharply off the stone floor. Somehow she's pretty sure her soul isn't what he's after.

She digs another store-brand aspirin from her jacket pocket and crushes it between her teeth. It's bitter, chalky, but at least it cuts the pain a little. Her hand actually hurts more now than it did just after, hurts from her ring finger to her wisdom teeth, sometimes jagged and electric, sometimes dull and pounding. Just now the pain thuds in time with her heartbeat. She tries to dry-swallow a second pill and briefly considers washing it down with altar wine just to see what would happen.

Better not. She's slowly learning not to tempt fate.

But she's tired and she hurts and he's taking forever. She leans on the armrest, pillows her head on her good arm. She can feel the earth turn on its axis when she closes her eyes. The pew is too hard, uncomfortable beneath her, and for some reason that makes her remember the last time she was in a church. 

The memory makes her want to run.

She opens her eyes instead. Has to blink before things come back into focus. The room is still spinning slightly and she feels hot and cold all over the back of her neck. The incense is making her queasy. Maybe he won't notice if she just slips outside for some air. 

"Justine."

She jumps guiltily, knocking her throbbing hand against a sharp, hardwood edge. And, damn it, it hurts. She bites her lip. He just looks annoyed. Then again, he tends to look annoyed as a general rule. She climbs sloppily to her feet, pulling herself up with her other hand on the back of the pew. He's standing by the shadowed alcove, with its made-for-TV serial killer shrine of candles, an avenging angel with drooping, black leather wings. Watching her. She hadn't even noticed when he'd left the confessional.

"Soul all clean?" But her heart isn't in it. He isn't paying her words any real attention anyway. He looks over her shoulder at the altar, seeing something Justine doesn't.

"Come here." Again with the commands. But she has a stigmata puncture wound of her own to remind her to obey. 

Still she hesitates, drags her feet. She isn't quite ready to let him know the power he has. He probably knows anyway. She steps out into the aisle, crosses over to him, aware of something in the way he watches her. 

Maybe she does know what he confessed after all.

But that isn't why she shakes when he touches her. She is trembling, though, and she's not someone who trembles, or faints, or cries. His fingers are cold, even through the thick, sticky bandage. She's dizzy again and misses most of what he says next.

"I want you to do this for me," is all she gets. 

She balks at that, confused, and takes a step back. Away. Out of his grasp. Or so she thinks. But he reaches easily for her elbow and pulls her back, stands her in the shadowed corner, in front of the candles.

"Are you sending me to time-out?" The words come out thin, wavery, not the way they'd sounded in her head.

"Justine." There's a warning in his voice, so she sighs and takes the taper he's pressing into her palm. "Here." He stands behind her, takes her hand in his and guides her. She can feel the pulse at his thumbs on her wrists. It's fast, uneven. He holds her too tightly, and her own heart flutters and starts, trying to match rhythms. It can't and skips, a double-beat against her breastbone, her breath catching in her throat. 

They've been living like this, in tandem, for weeks. At first she assumed it was his way of teaching, by action, by example. Always holding her hand, guiding, showing her the way to go, how to move, how to think, to feel, to fight. But now the others have come to them… and still he holds her hand and no one else's. Holds her hand, tells her she's made for this, for him, to be at his side. All part of the lessons, or so she thought. But he doesn't teach the others this way. He leaves their teaching in _her_ hands. So now she isn't sure what to think, or even if she wants to think.

"Well, what now?" she asks, even though she's figured out exactly what it is he wants her to do.

"Don't be difficult." 

She sighs, holds the taper down to one of the tiny flames. Somewhere behind them a door swings open, the candles gutter in response, but none go out. He tightens his grip on her wrist and chooses three unlit candles.

"One for Caroline. One for Sarah. One for little Daniel." He speaks softly into her ear, a murmured litany each time she touches flame to wick. Here. Here. And here. A soft, slow dance with ritual. His other hand rests on her hip, clutches, familiar in a way that's new. She isn't sure she likes it.

She turns to blow out the taper, but he holds her fast. "And one for Julia," he murmurs, forcing her hand back down. The candle flickers, licks, dribbling wax. The wick catches, splitting flame in two, dividing. 

She burns her fingers, but doesn't pull away. 

***


End file.
